


Wounded Bird

by Anonymous



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mpreg, Rough Sex, Some Fluff, Stripper Timmy, Strippers & Strip Clubs, bouncer Armie, but lots of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-10-12 16:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17471141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Three fucking times only. Only three times made their platonic, easy going relationship turn into shit. He should’ve never.Timmy had been too tempting, too sweet and too sharp mouthed, too pretty too, Armie’s not to be blamed, is he?Timmy has such a range of contradicting emotions, Armie thinks half the reason he even liked him is the fact that he can’t understand him.





	1. October

**October**

“What the fuck?” Armie growls, spitting out a mixture of pink saliva. Blood and spit.

Timmy looks pissed, frail, shorter than him of course, but still somehow a tad unnerving. The fire in his eyes gleam bright, the overhead street lamp is nothing in comparison.

“What the fuck is right,” Timmy spits angrily, his fist still shaking.

Armie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, watching Tim with careful eyes.

“What’s gotten into you? Are you fucking nuts?”

Timothée thick, dark brows tense in a crease, his eyes like a wild dog whose about to snap its jaws.

“You-“ he hisses vehemently, before he sighs loudly, “fuck, forget it. It’s not worth it anymore.”

He turns to leave, Armie is pissed beyond words he could express. They were just on what Armie assumed were good terms but now Timmy is going to knock him in the mouth with one bony fist and no explanation?

“Timmy!” Armie hisses, striding forward and roughly grasping Tim’s pointy elbow through his loose black Metallica t-shirt he’s got pulled over his stage outfit.

“Get the fuck off me!” Timmy screams, shoving Armie back with his fast hands. It doesn’t move him more than a couple inches and he grips Timmy’s arm harder, feeling the skin shift around the bone in a near breaking hold.

“Tell me what the fuck is going on! Are you some fucked up druggie now too?” Armie bites out bitterly, droplets of spit flying out when he yells like a livid wolf.

Tim eyes him with fury, “that was one fucking time but you can’t let it the fuck go!”

Armie tenses his jaw, rolling his eyes at Timmy’s obnoxious behavior.

“Yeah one time, only _two_ weeks ago.”

“It was only two lines and I didn’t even pay for it, Jackie did!”

He sighs, “well Jackie also just got threatened to be banned from the club two nights ago for-“

Tim interrupts agitatedly “yeah for giving that one old dude a handy in the front I know. That’s got nothing to do with us having a little fun backstage.”

“Doing coke is what you call fun?” Armie says in disbelief.

Tim’s mouth twists like the memory is bitter, “yeah, actually at the time it was. You’re the one who told me to ‘try new things’ remember?”

He seethes at Timmy blatantly twisting his words, “yeah try new things like getting food at a new pub not doing fucking coke in the back of the club with fucking Jackie!”

Timmy stands still for a moment, his breathing turning quiet.

“Whatever, just leave me the fuck alone and don’t bother me unless I need you for something,” Tim says like it doesn’t matter. Like what they had going on didn’t matter. Did it?

Maybe it didn’t. It only happened a couple times, the amount of times that Armie could count on one hand.

Three times.

Three fucking times only. Only three times made their platonic, easy going relationship turn into shit. He should’ve never.

Timmy had been too tempting, too sweet and too sharp mouthed, too pretty too, Armie’s not to be blamed, is he?

Timmy has such a range of contradicting emotions, Armie thinks half the reason he even liked him is the fact that he can’t understand him.


	2. Blurry

**Three weeks prior.**

Timmy tips his head back, a smile spreading over his face, stretching his lips. His pretty pink lips. He lets out a loud, near obnoxious bubbly laugh that reverberates deep in his chest, smoker’s lungs, go figure.

Cigarette smoke blooms from his lips like a nuclear cloud, swishing away into the neon overhead bar lights.

Jackie’s pressed against his side, she’s whispering in his ear and pointing at one of the currently working dancers, Miranda, Armie thinks, well or Marissa, he can’t seem to remember it clearly.

She’s from the south he recalls hazily. She’d told him the first night she arrived here, and at the time she explained which city in detail but that memory had been washed away as soon as he’d gotten distracted mid-conversation by a heavily intoxicated dude rocking one of their long-time dancers in the face over a spilled glass.

Timmy blinks over at him, a split second but no less, enough time for Armie to catch it in the haze from strobe lights and drunk, sluggish bodies busying their way to the bar between them.

Armie taps the bar top, signaling with a raise of his brow for Kenny to attend to him first (which he receives a few glares for from the two older men who’d already been waiting before him). Kenny briefs a nod at him and empties the mixed drink he’d been shaking into one of their regular’s glass.

Kenny grabs the rum before Armie even has to ask for it.

“Rum on the rocks again?” he inquires, head down as he grabs a glass under the bar.

“Always,” Armie chimes, his fingertips buzzing to grab the cold glass and down it. Timmy’s eyeing him up and down every other second and Armie kind of wishes he could slip out backstage for a quickie with him (especially to stop that _annoying_ arrogant look in his eyes). He wants to shove him up against the mirror again, like the-

The bottom of his awaiting glass kisses the bar top with a sound click, the fog in his brain clearing like cold wind washing away a fire’s smoke.

_Another time._

He downs his drink with a quick grimace, rum always taste grossly bitter on the first shot.

He curses in his head as he dares one look back at Tim, _Timmy_ , who is now smirking behind his cigarette.

Just great, Tim caught him looking like a bitch who can’t handle a little rum.

(What the fuck ever, his brain supplies) He shrugs and doesn’t meet his eyes as he stands tall, he doesn’t look back even as he pushes through the crowd. The mass of crowd is filled with filthy, horny (mostly) old men with a side of young, freshly twenty year old blonde chicks no doubt coming here just to flirt with the gay male dancers. It’s confusing to Armie, he can’t wrap his head around why most gay dudes just seem to be a chick magnet. Zero clue.

When the minutes turn to hours Armie is (secretly) happy when a belated fight starts up in the entry way. Two young guys around twentyish, tipsy and loud mouthed, Armie only catches “that’s my girl motherfucker,” before he’s throwing himself between them.

During the fleeting fight that lasts no longer than twenty seconds, Armie in the midst of flying (limber, and scrawny) arms he catches Tim’s eye all the way across the room. He’s casted in a red stage light, his gold outfit adorning his frame in a way that Armie doesn’t want to call beautiful, but it’s beautiful. His gaze holds Armie’s for seconds that seem way too long before he’s twirling down the pole, (and away from Armie’s attention).

Armie gets knocked in the ear by a messy swing during his (dumb) distraction and that’s when he snaps.

He shoves back the taller dude, easily flinging him into the brick wall three feet back, the shorter dude stops, heavy breathed and wild eyed.

“Both of you dumb fucks need to get the fuck out of here before the club has you arrested!” he orders, pulling the shorter guy by the hem of his shirt and shoving him out the door with a few obscenities leaving the fucker’s mouth. He’s quick on his steps to do the same with the taller, less enraged dude.

~

“Long night?” Timmy asks him later on at four when they’re closing up, sat at the bar as they absentmindedly watch KJ (their other bouncer) lead a few stray lingering guys out the front’s dingy red door.

“Eh, it was fine,” Armie murmurs, brushing off Timothée’s concern as he continues staring down at his lap. He’s exhausted to say the least.

Timmy’s got a leg crossed over the other, ointment and bandaging supplies sat on the bar top near him. He wraps his one knee with a plain white bandage, the ointment he’d applied just seconds before now clinging to it. He gently switches legs to do the same with the other.

“You ever get tired of doing that?” Armie asks before thinking the question through.

Timmy stills for a moment, then uncaps the ointment once again, glancing up for a second to look Armie directly in the eye. (fuck)

“Doing what? Bandaging my leg?” he smiles, but there’s something empty to it. (Armie, you’re in your head again)

He shakes his head and turns away, “forget it, I’ll see you tomorrow night Tim.”

He forces himself not to look back as Timmy responds with a soft, fragile sounding, “see you Armie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy! if you have any thoughts let me hear them ~


	3. I'm dyin'

**July**  
**First meeting**

“Don’t call me again you fucking asshole!”

Armie hears it seconds before he gets to the sticker embellished dressing room door. Stanley had sent him to fetch Stacey. She’d been due onstage five minutes ago and the time isn’t ticking any slower.

He stills at the door, it’s open about an inch. He doesn’t recognize that voice, nor the beautiful, long pale legs attached to that body that his eyes are allowed to trail over, voyeurism style.

They’re crying. A soft weeping of hiccupped sobs filling the air. The bass of the hip hop playing up front is muted in comparison. He feels like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t.

That voice, those legs, he can’t tell if the newbie is a dude or a chick, both of the attributes he witnessed are contradicting the other.

He taps the door, waiting a second before pushing it open. The figure is pale like their legs, a brunette with their back turned to him, those curls say chick to Armie.

“Hey, do you know where Stacey is at?”

He mentally curses himself for asking the newbie chick on where a worker would be, how the hell would she know? Last time he checked the strippers he knows aren’t usually social butterflies when they don’t know another dancer, they can get real catty.

“Is Stacey the redhead?” she asks, he, Armie then realizes, that voice is far too deep to be a chick’s. It’s soft, and holds a gentle rasp to it but it’s undeniably male.

“Uh, yeah, that’s her.”

The boy exhales a breath, “oh, well all she told me is that she was going go get a drink.”

Armie huffs agitatedly, “fucking Stacey,” the dancers aren’t supposed to drink a good thirty minutes before being up on stage. She never listens.

He shoves the door shut behind him as he strides out of the dressing room.

~  
**Twelve minutes later**

Armie's sidled up at the bar, watching the dancers gyrate their hips on the silver and gold tinted metal like they were born for this type of work.

Many dancers have tried to get with him but they were useless attempts. He made out with Stacey once but he’d been drunk off his ass.

Relationships stay out of the club.

“That newbie’s due onstage” Kenny says, placing two shots before him, a smile playing on his lips.

Armie twists his posture, “yeah? You seen him?”

He downs the first shot in a quick singular gulp, he grimaces, clenching his teeth at the odd taste. It’s the best type of cough syrup.

“Briefly, he’s already mingling with Jackie, he looks real young, illegal almost.”

He raises his brows and downs his second shot, turning his full attention towards the stage.

The music switches from Akon to a soft, melodic female voice.

_**Darling, darling doesn’t have a problem**_

_**Lying to herself cause her liquors top shelf** _

The boy steps out into the spotlight.

He’s fucking beautiful.

It’s the first thought in Armie’s head.

He saunters sweetly, suavely, a gentleness to his narrow hips, his even narrower waist.

_**It’s alarming honestly how charming she can be** _

_**Fooling everyone telling them she’s having fun** _

He’s in pale white. Cream skin and pale pink silk, a babydoll dress on, a 60s white fur half coat wrapped on his bony shoulders.

The spotlight bestowed on him glows a cotton candy pink, the strobe light swirls heart shapes on him.

He shakes his hips, the hem of the babydoll dress bouncing against the top of his thigh.

Armie tries real hard to look anywhere else. He feels wrong watching. He looks young and too thin. The contrast of his smooth, plush skin (fuck Armie what are you thinking?) To the older, wrinkled flesh of the praising males watching him, wanting him. Wanting to fuck him.

It sickens Armie and he tells himself it’s not out of jealousy.

_**She says you don’t want to be like me**_

_**Don’t wanna see all the things I’ve seen**_

_**I’m dying, I’m dying** _

The boy bends over, pressing the curve of his ass to the golden pole. His ass cheeks being exposed from the short length of the silk. The white cotton panties exposed, the fabric dipping softly in the give of his tender cheeks.

Armie clenches his teeth and ignore the ache that begins to reside in his jeans.

“Fuck, he’s something” Kenny says impressedly, nodding along with men who are whistling.

Armie narrows his eyes, scowling without trying to, “how about another round?

Kenny grabs for a glass, a smirk still playing on his lips.

He feels the song pounding at his temples, the vision of that beautiful boy scorched into his irises. He’s vibrating on nerves, needing another shot to chill him.

_**The boys, the girls** _

_**They all like Carmen** _

_**She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes** _

_**She laughs like God** _

_**Her mind's like a diamond** _

_**Autotune lies** _

_**She's still shining** _

_**Like lightning** _

His shot sloshes slightly onto his fingers as he picks it up.

He swallows it with a slight tilt of his head, eyes closed, Bliss.

An angel stays lingering in the blackness, marked behind his eyelids.

(So fucking pretty)

Armie looks back, he can’t help it.

The boy has his dress pushed up now, rubbing his hips, his cotton panty covered hips. He looks too innocent, too slutty and Armie wants to see him up close, see him behind closed doors, wonders if he could reach out and touch, if he could find the courage.

He wonders how his pretty skin feels, how he feels inside.

He shouldn’t be thinking that.

(Have some professionalism Armie) his brain reminds him in a voice that sounds all too much like his mother’s.

_**Relying on the kindness of strangers**_

_**Tying cherry knots, smiling, doing party favors** _

Armie heads outside to smoke a cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and comments are extremely motivating ! Thanks for reading!


	4. The Bunny

He finishes his cigarette with the image of the clubs new dancer stuck on repeat in his head.

(Those legs, that hair, those panties, Jesus fucking Christ Armie is fucked)

He’ll need to keep his distance.

He’d seen Stanley fire too many chicks over emotion conflicts happening in the workplace for him to risk doing that shit himself.

Armie’s got three years under his belt of working here, it’s decent pay and never a dull night, what’s not to love?

~  
Jackie hip checks him playfully as he passes her backstage. He’s buzzed and feels wiry, like there’s an distinct electricity to the air.

“How are you doing, J?” Armie asks her, stopping outside the dressing room door. He’s waiting on Stacey, she’d took a quick shift tonight and every time she works he or KJ has to escort her to her little black Audi, she has an extremely attached ex to say the least. The bruises he’d seen on her arms when she first began working there are proof enough.

She smirks, her brunette wavy hair falling into her face as she leans down, digging something out of her purse.

Her cigarettes of course.

“Stan said-“

“I know what Stan said,” she replies swiftly with a certain wink, flicking her light, “and that doesn’t matter because he loves me. Do you really think he’ll fire his favorite worker over a little nicotine?”

He rolls his eyes as she blows out the first puff with a obnoxious kiss. He knows she’s right, but he still looks out, Stanley can be a real dick when he’s mad.

He looks back at her after a moment, pouting with puppy eyes and rubbing his fingers together. That smell is tempting.

She flicks her ash against the stair rail, blinking up at him with a shit eating grin plastered on her soft cheeks, “you need to slow down, you just came in from having one.”

“Shit, I know but I’ve been on edge all night, I don’t know what it is. This humidity is getting to me.”

She nods, sidling up beside him as she digs out another one, “you got that summer fever.”

Suddenly, the boy from earlier emerges from the main stage curtain, his babydoll dress clutched in his hands, covering his front with it. His skin isn’t as pale anymore, it’s flushed with his recent momentum and the hot stage lights.

He rushes past them and into the dressing room without a word, they silently watch him until the door shuts. Armie didn’t get to see his face.

After a second he looks back at Jackie, answering her previous comment belatedly, “yeah, something like that.”

~

Armie finishes the end of the night with KJ disappearing off to flirt with three young Latina girls, so he’s without the extra set of hands.

“He’s what?” Armie repeats agitatedly, the last song is booming over the twelve speakers aligned along the walls and it’s muting every word Jackie says.

“He’s harassing Timmy, the newbie, he’s asking for a blow-“  
Armie’s fist clench, he sighs, pinching his nose bridge in annoyance, “I’ll go handle it.”

As much as he loathes the geriatric perverts that roam these types of places he hates the young guys even more, they never seem to follow the rules.

Being taller than most people helps Armie in situations like these, he sifts through the crowd easily, nudging aside still bodies and finding the clearest path.

Two drunk girls send him a wink, he gives them a tight smile just to be polite which earns him their mutual blush and giggle. (Fucking college chick’s)

He strides just ten feet more when his eyes fall on the empty pole, the newbie leant down on the stage, his wrist in the firm grasp of a strong male.

“So like I was saying, I’ll pay big I don’t mind,” the guy smiles easily, it’s gut curdling.

His teeth clench.

“I- I mean, I heard what you said the first time. I just can’t do that,” the newbie tells him, at least tries.

The dude doesn’t relent on his arm and that’s when Armie decides to step in.

“Hey dude, how about we take a walk outside,” Armie grins tightly, he feels a fire lit in his core. His fingers getting sweat slick.

The dude blinks at him dumbly, he looks like a smug jock type, a 'mommy and daddy is paying my tuition type.’

“How about you mind your business asshole? Doll face and I are just having a friendly conversation, aren’t we sweetheart?”

Christ, even his voice is nauseating.

The newbie gives him an unsure look.

Those big doe eyes locking into his for help is all it takes for him to jump into action.

He forces the prick’s fingers off the boy’s arm, revealing pale pressure marks in it’s wake.

“I’ll have you sued motherfucker,” the douche yells, gripping at Armie’s arm that’s currently forcing him to walk away.

“Yeah, call up daddy and let him know,” Armie replies sharply, wrenching his arm roughly just for the pleasure of doing so.

Some girls laugh and point, others watch with amusement.

Armie catches a two second glimpse of KJ tongue-ing the petite Latina chick he’d been talking about earlier.

“Coming through,” he announces to the two butch chicks making out, halfway blocking the mini hall before the exit. The buzz cut chick with the nose ring sends him a glare as her short, chubby girlfriend tugs her aside.

He shoves him out the door, smiles proudly to himself as he hears the satisfying groan bubble out the dude’s throat from falling on his ass.

~  
**Ten minutes later**

He places his phone, his thumb ring and two cigarette he bummed off Kenny in his bag. He can afford his own but he’s been trying to quit, somehow purchasing his own pack would feel like losing.

“Thank you.”

He jumps, his heart beat banging in his ears as his eyes fall on the newbie.

“Shit,” he coughs awkwardly, trying to play it off (but failing).

Standing before him is the boy he’d met spontaneously throughout the night without truly meeting him.

He’s more than Armie could imagine, seriously.

Hazel eyes, full lips, a soft voice, a pretty face. Long, long legs.

(Shit)

(Say something don’t just stand there, dumbass)

“Oh, for what exactly?” he grins, a tad forced but it plays out easy. He can play cocky when he likes.

The boy’s eyes are too innocent and big as he says “well that guy, he was horrible!”

Armie nods, “yeah, he sure was a dick.”

The boy smiles, and damn even his teeth are pretty. (Bunny cute, like a French Lolita)

(Christ Armie)

“But you don’t need to thank me,” he promises genuinely, “I’m just doing my job.”

The boy nods, glancing down momentarily, cascading over his body (did Armie imagine that?)

“Well, I appreciate it anyways,” he tells him softly, a thin hand reaching out towards him, “my name is Timmy.”

(And in that second Armie can’t help but think his name should be sin instead)


	5. I see the secrets that you keep

**Back to current**

  
**October**

“Whatever, just leave me the fuck alone and don’t bother me unless I need you for something,” Tim says like it doesn’t matter. Like what they had going on didn’t matter. Did it?

Maybe it didn’t. It only happened a couple times, the amount of times that Armie could count on one hand.

Three times.

Three fucking times only. Only three times made their platonic, easy going relationship turn into shit. He should’ve never.

Timmy had been too tempting, too sweet and too sharp mouthed, too pretty too, Armie’s not to be blamed, is he?

Timmy has such a range of contradicting emotions, Armie thinks half the reason he even liked him is the fact that he can’t understand him.

Armie clenches his teeth, watching Timmy fling the heavy back door open, leaving cold empty air swirling in his wake.

His cheek is stinging, Timothée’s fragile bones are still pointy, overall.

He curses, patting his leg for any loosie’s. After seconds of built up irritation and his fingers aggressively searching the denim he finds a promising thin mound in his back pocket. He hopes his success isn’t built of mashed bleached paper and scattered tobacco.

He digs and finds out in a ever so thankful manner that it happens to be perfectly fine, that any perching at the bar didn’t destroy his much needed cigarette.

(Thank fucking God)

He flicks the light, it’s cheap and probably accidentally stolen from somebody, Pink’s not much his color nor does he remember buying it.

The first inhale is bliss, blissful blissful peace.

His mind clouds with images of a pissed off Timothée just seconds later, he can’t control it, something about Timmy is like a whirlpool, an oozing, gunky black tar that you can’t help but get stuck to, get sucked into, drown in like a book too good to put down. A story you have to understand fully and know the end to. A mystery novel drenched in seduction, melancholy and beauty. A wounded bird trying to flutter it’s wings.

Armie had pondered it before, thought it over some, maybe Timmy’s so irresistible to him because of his bipolar nature. How some nights Timmy will seem like so blatantly innocent. How he’ll giggle, blush and watch Armie with those big eyes that promise things that they shouldn’t. Sweet, innocent things, like when he offered to warm up his untouched lasagna to share with Armie when Armie got a cold last month. Or that time Armie had lost his cool after KJ got punched by a raging drunk customer and he had to intervene with his knuckles and pure luck,  later on Timmy was wide eyed and gentle as he rubbed Vaseline on the cuts.

Then there’s those sullen nights where it looks terribly wrong when Tim’s onstage, those nights where he’s got that empty, far off look in his eye as his body does the opposite. There’s moments that makes Armie think that maybe there is something lurking below the surface of his out going, bubbly personality, parts he feels like maybe no one’s ever seen. He wants it all.

He stubs out the nearly burnt filter, heads inside swiftly, the last few breaths of his cigarette disappear coldly.

~

He bypasses KJ, ignoring the 'what the fuck' that he mouths toward him about his swollen eye area, Armie replies the same way, an inaudible 'later' and waves him off. His feet carry underneath himself fast, like they’re aware of the mission he’s on before his brain does. Like white noise the bodies around him blur, they’re sluggish and muted in his peripheral.

He doesn’t care that he looks so 'whipped' that KJ will bust his balls about later. His mind is running a mile a minute, brown Chestnut locks, fierce green eyes and a blurred, swinging fist fills his vision on repeat, he desperately needs to know why his cheek is red and why Timothée looked so damn hurt.

The backstage door looks promising, it opens fast when Armie’s just a moments stride away.

Jackie.

Her brown eyes fall wide on him.

She shakes her head.

“Where’s Timmy” he says immediately, his words coming out breathy, the club is stiffly hot and sweaty from the new fog machines Stan had put in and Armie fucking hates Halloween time because of it.

She folds her arms, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

She looks weirdly protective of Timmy and Armie hates it, there’s a leeching, sickening jealousy he has towards their relationship. How Timmy tells her everything and relies on her like she’s his backbone. Armie wants Timmy to be like that with him, he wants to know what makes Tim happy, what makes him cry.

“What? Is he still trying to fight me or something? Because last time I checked I didn’t do a damn thing to him, you know I wouldn’t put my hands on him-“

“It’s not like that, it’s just, he’s really upset and-“

“I’m not going back to the front till I talk to him,” he tells her, his voice is firmer than he was hoping. He probably looks like a douche.

She rolls her Kohl lined eyes, her lips let out a sigh as she steps aside, “whatever, I’m not going to stop you but..” she stills for a second, “just be nice, he’s had a bad night.”

Armie feels honestly like he’s had a worse night but he bites his tongue and doesn’t say that. (Stop letting your anger get the best of you, prick)

“Fuck,” he grumbles, bad thoughts and anger still swarming him, he pushes the door ajar.

The mirrors that line the wall are empty of an occupant but one, Timmy’s.

He’s turned away, shaking, sobbing. It’s the exact image he’d got of Timmy the first time he ever saw him. It cuts deep that somehow he made Timothée feel this way.

“Tim,” he grits out, his tone falling loud above the rapid beat of his heart.

He wants to walk over, maybe touch him, carefully so.

Timmy sniffles, his body tensing a bit visibly as he hears Armie.

“Please, not right now,” Timmy cries, voice thick and broken.

He can’t help it. He strides towards Timmy but as soon as Tim hears the first step approaching he jumps up, grabbing something off the counter.

His arm bolts out, grabbing Timmy’s other wrist as Timothée successfully shoves the hidden object into his bag.

“What are you hiding?” Armie hisses, growing more and more angry by the second.

Timmy’s doing more drugs, he’s sure of it. It hits all the check boxes, Tim acting irrational? Check. Tim alone with Jackie? Check. Tim keeping secrets from him? Check.

Timothée looks at him, glossy scared eyes and reddened nose, then to the bag. Armie's not going to reach in Tim’s bag and disrespect his privacy like that but fuck does it hurt that Timmy doesn’t trust him enough to tell him what’s going on.

“Please Armie, don’t,“ Timmy whimpers, looking like a tiny little animal.

“For fucks sakes Timmy, first you punch me and then refuse to tell me why and now you’re hiding that you’re doing drugs? I though we were- that uh- we had-“

“That we were what Armie?” Tim says angrily, “we are nothing, we were nothing, you never made me anything.”

Armie sees the tears well up, the emotional torment that flickers upon his face, the hurt. It’s quietly satisfying.

(Put on a front Armie, don’t get weak, don’t be emotionally vulnerable because than that makes two of you)

“That’s all this is about _honey_?” Armie sneers, “that you wanted to be my little boyfriend? It’s that important to you that I give you a label?”

Timmy grimaces, shoulders hunching. The little, delicate gasp and renewed tremble of his shoulders lets Armie know he’s won, that he’s hit a soft spot.

Timmy’s fingers latch onto his shoulder, shoving him away from him as he falls to his knees with a sound smack that makes Armie cringe. He hurls into the little black bin underneath the counter, the knobs of his spine visible through his t shirt as his body twitches, deep, guttural sounds fall from his lips paired with nasty sloshes of wetness.

“Fuck, Timmy,” Armie whispers, calm and gentle unlike his previous tone. Every bone of anger gone, all he wants to do is protect.

Tim looks back at him and wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve, “go away,” he sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone interested in this fic still ?


	6. Say too little, Say too much...

Armie’s more serious about him than he’d like to admit (or shows), it’s even worse to think about. Every time he wants to open up and be straight forward with Tim to make their relationship clean cut to fit in some sort of safety box he can’t. He just can’t.

He struggles to find the words and to do the things he should to show he cares but damn is his little nuances not obvious enough?

He gives him attention when Tim speaks. He always defends Tim when the other male dancers make jealous, snide comments about him. He always makes note of picking up pieces of Timmy’s stage outfits and placing them on top of his bag. He does nice things for him, why is Timmy blind to it all?

It’s beyond frustrating and a mind fuck dealing with Timmy. Armie feels conflicted, confused and always in a whirlpool of uncertainty. Tim will give him heart eyes then the second after it’ll be filled with a gut dreading look of indifference.

It fucks him up inside. He hates that he feels like he knows him without really knowing him. That the idea he has of him might be complete fiction, maybe he knows nothing at all, maybe he doesn’t even see past the shell of Timmy’s truths.

He knows that Timmy doesn’t keep in contact with his family but doesn’t know the reason.

He knows Timmy has an ex he loathes but that tale didn’t have an ending page.

He knows that Tim didn’t want to be a stripper in life, that he had other dreams that Armie is still unaware of.

He wants the ending to his questions, he no longer wants to know how, he needs to know why.  
~

The next night Timmy is on fire, shaking his ass as he grinds down on the pole. His outfit skimpier than he usually wears, (of course he would know this about Tim.) It’s velvet, red like fire and stark in contrast to his skin. Gold little beads on the hips, a necklace to match along with a gold chain around his wrist.

There’s guys swarming the stage and Armie suddenly hates that Timmy works here.

He hates watching what he wishes was his be stripped apart by hungry eyes like he’s nothing but an object to desire.

Bills are thrown and Timmy bathes in it, bounces it off his hips as he stands. He pouts his lips as he saunters to the edge of the stage.

He blows a (sarcastic) kiss and winks Armie’s way.

He’s acting like nothing happened. Molten flames arrive in the pit of Armie’s stomach.

Armie’s been watching him all night, both hopeless and annoyed.

The song ends and it’s never sounded any sweeter.

Timothée is fresh offstage, coming down with a giggle as a guest helps him down in a completely obvious flirting manner. Armie’s eyes burn at the glide of an old tanned hand down Tim’s side, thumbing the waist band of Timmy’s skimpy red two piece outfit.

He can’t make out the words that leave their mouths but he can clearly see the inviting glow in Tim’s gaze.

“Fuck, I need a drink,” he huffs mostly to himself, swiping his brow for sweat.

KJ raises a brow and thumps his fist into his back in a hard pat, “come on dude, forget about him, he’s been waving his tail at everyone these days,” he chides it easily, like it’s that simple. KJ means well but Armie’s not letting it go that easy.

“He hasn’t been doing that, I know Timmy and I know that-“

KJ rolls his eyes, “do you really know him? Because I’ve seen the way he looks sometimes, he’s not some fallen angel that you think he is.” KJ's chuckle is dark, it falls nastily on Armie’s nerves, like there’s something more to it.

“You don’t know shit so drop it,” Armie grits out. He’s to his limit with Tim’s bullshit he doesn’t need his closest friend here adding to the mix.

“If that’s what you want to believe,” KJ shrugs, the crude look in his eyes remaining.

He’s ready to fight the first John he sees acting up at this point. He’s built on anger and frustration and the only way he’s only known how to let it out is aggression. Ever so freeing, unadulterated aggression.

He exhales heavily, giving in to the urge to know (Fuck), “tell me.”

KJ's face blooms with elation, like he’d been expecting Armie to ask but not so soon.

“Well, all I’m saying there’s a reason your boy gets the main stage every night, he’s pretty handy on his knees.”

The image of Timmy in that position for anyone but him is flashing wrong, an error message declining to process in his brain. Timmy’s too beautiful, too precious, too _his_.

“You’re _lying_ ,” he hisses out, wetness stinging at his eyes because all he feels is pure rage.

Red is all he sees.

KJ grimaces slightly, like it finally dawned on him how much Timmy means to Armie from his expression.

Armie gives him his cold steely gaze, “I’ll be back in ten,” he tells him, hating his guts for the moment being.

His fist shake from the clench of his bone. His mind soars with all possibilities. He wants to know who and why. His _Timmy_.

All that Armie can think of is Stan.

(Actually all Armie can think about is Timothée letting Stan fuck him to work at the club)

It hurts. (It really fucking hurts)

The bodies he pushes past are numb. Meaningless.

He’s blind to it all.

He feels like a wolf when it’s filled with rage that can only be let out in violent howls and quick, rough movements. He’s been holding everything down. Not speaking when he needed to. Not saying that he means.

Timmy reappears, he’s leaning against some dude at the bar. A biker tatted dude that Armie really senses is a douche right off the bat.

(Is that your jealousy speaking, Armie?)

His head pounds with the hip hop blaring in the speaker by his ear, he needs liquor.

“Two vodka one rum.” He rests his eyes on his lap, trying to avoid Kenny seeing his irritation.

Kenny nods, giving Armie’s off body language a once over.

“On the house.”

“Thanks,” Armie nods stiffly, completely grateful but a little annoyed with himself that he’s that obvious.

He avoids looking at Timmy.

The first and second shot go down in quick succession. The third is harsher, his throat suddenly dry as Timmy’s breathy laugh echoes in his ears.

“You’re drinking a ton,” Timmy points out, now suddenly behind him.

“Thanks for noticing,” he replies dryly, standing up to face Timothée.

Timothée's disheveled up close, his lightly applied mascara smeared a tad, his bralette dangling half off his thin frame

“Two more rum?” Armie asks Kenny but has little hope. Kenny cuts him off early on nights Stan is here.

(Stan. Timmy. Stan. Timmy.)

“No hope buddy, go clean yourself up, you look a damn mess.”

Bony fingers latch onto his jacket, he feels like warmth through the cotton.

His pulse jumps.

“Fuck, what?” Armie hisses, facing each other.

Timmy smiles weakly, “I think we should talk.”

Armie is quick to shut him down, “I think we shouldn’t.” (idiot, you fucking idiot. Think before you speak next time, or the time after that.)

“Armie,” Timmy says and it’s in that voice, that edge of plead is enough for Armie to go along.

“Okay, in the back,” Armie finalizes.  
~

He follows him back, keeps his heart tucked away and his eyes off his ass.

They enter the dressing room without a word, both their eyes falling on Stacey who is packing her makeup bag.

She pushes back her hair, “am I interrupting something?” she blinks.

Timothée smiles “no.”

“Yes,” Armie says.

She smirks knowingly at Armie, yet another person whose going to give him shit about this.

She brushes past him, grabbing her Starbucks on the counter by the door, “see ya Armie.”

Armie follows her steps and locks the door, sighing in relief against the cold frame for a second. The quiet is a fresh breath of cold air.

“You wanna know why I punched you?” timothée says, his tone coming out fragile.

“That’d be a start,” Armie replies gravelly.

When he looks at Tim he sees a broken mirror. He sees a fragility that no one thinks of when he’s out on the floor.

Timmy looks at him with lost boy eyes, soft pouty lips. They’re chapped, sore in color like the tired rings under his eyes.

“That’s the problem, I can’t tell you.”

Armie huffs a breath, “than why am I back here?”

Timothée’s expression turns pained, he closes in on himself, arms crossing “do you even care, at all?”

Those words tear at his flesh like a zombie. So dirty. So wrong and infected.

“I do fucking care Timmy, I care to the point that I really need to understand why.”

That’s it.

The river dam collapse. It’s as if the queen herself was killed.

Timmy cries, a hiccuped, attempted stifle sob that wracks his whole body.

Armie wraps him in his arms, pushing his body up against the counter easily.

“I care Timmy, I do,” he repeats, loud in his own ears. The waves are colliding angrily. A tsunami nears.

“Show me,” Timmy whimpers, clawing at Armie’s shirt and at his shoulders.

It’s a hushed whine, soft sounds of Timmy’s cries and begs mixing like the most beautiful sound track in Armie’s ears.

He has a bone deep urge to show him. To press every little thought into his lips. To fuck every ounce of care into his body.

He leans in swift, demanding for access. He licks into Timmy’s mouth, dominant in the way Timmy lets him. The pliant slide of Timmy’s tongue and body against him is so sweet, makes him even more hungry to take.

“Please.”

Armie’s cock juts at the front of his boxers at the delicious pitch to Timothée’s voice, all thick with want.

He raises Timmy up like a doll, their distinct differences in their build apparent as he sets him down on the counter. Armie presses in between the creamy space of his thighs. All soft, thin, long.

“Want me here?” Armie whispers huskily, pressing his hand on Timmy’s belly.

Timmy breathing stutters softly, eyes heavy lidded, blissed out and painfully submissive.

“Yes, please.”

Please.

The chain on his control feels broken.

Armie lets his hands roam roughly, needing his soft cheeks in his palms. Creating little reddening marks down to his collar bones as he raises Timmy’s hips out of the panties.

“Want to hear you say it,” he tells him, tossing his underwear aside as he rubs his denim covered crotch into Timmy’s sensitive, unprotected one.

His cheeks are red, flushed as he fights the sensation, his adorable state of arousal where he doesn’t know to flight or give in.

“Armie-“

Armie unzips his jeans smoothly, feeling the pressure subside momentarily from the lessened constriction. They fall in a heap of fabric at his feet, his black boxers following after to be kicked off.

Swollen arousal between them bumps together slick and hot, he guides his own down to where they need it.

Timothée’s hole is slick somehow, feeling a lot like a sweet little wet cunt.

He bites his lip, caging Timmy against the mirror as he nips the shell of his ear.

“Tell me,” Armie punctuates with the bump of his cock pressing as Timmy’s fluttering hole.

Timmy wraps his arms around his neck, kisses his ear chastely.

“Show me.”

Armie angles his hips into the delicate frame of Timmy’s hips, hearing the sob that echoes out Timmy’s throat as his thick cock opens him up.

“Good boy,” he repeats, rubbing Timothée’s hip. Timmy’s body opens for him slowly, like a velvety tight little glove.

Timmy makes tiny sounds of pain, his face tense, eyes closed and mouth lax, Armie knows it must hurt, it always does.

“Do you want me to stop?” he cups his face, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

“No, feels good,” Timmy promises quietly, clinging closer as the tears sparkle in his eyes.

Armie takes that as admission.

He cradles Timmy’s ass in his huge palms, ignoring the tremble in Timothée’s thighs as he presses in, balls deep in Timmy’s underweight body.

As Timothée’s chest heaves to adjust Armie sees his ribs, the soft bulge of his belly where Armie’s cock resides.

He slides out and in, slick and wet. Soft, barely there thrusts as first. Staying deep enough Tim can feel the ache, the heaviness making a home inside him.

“So deep, so deep,” Timmy says, head falling down on Armie’s shoulder.  
~

Timmy’s a mess, thighs shaking post coital, his own cum two streaks of white mess on his belly. His thighs are hiked up on Armie’s shoulder, he’s jolted further and further against the mirror each thrust.

Armie slides in so deliciously easy, Timmy’s so utterly wet. It reminds him at last second that he shouldn’t cum inside him. Timmy’s has the carrier Gene. Armie remembers being told over a hazy night of too much liquor.

“Stay inside,” Timmy pleads, feeling Armie’s hips begin to stutter.

If he was thinking rationally he’d know he absolutely should not get Timmy pregnant but instead Armie decides on a new philosophy for rationality.

That rationality is giving everything to Timmy.

His body goes warm all the way to his toes as he buries himself in Timmy for the last thrust, holding deep and angling instinctively at his womb.

Timmy smiles, real and true for once Armie thinks.

Armie sighs into his neck, feeling of regret resting in his heated cheeks, “fuck, I might’ve gotten you pregnant.”

Timmy doesn’t say anything.


	7. Yes I'm changing

_“More.”_

_It’s a whine. Pitchy. Fragile. Beneath him._

_He fucks harder. Deeper. Fucking the narrow, thin blurry body before him up the wall._

_He’s thrusting, feels hot all over._

_The moans and begs keep coming. Never ending._

_He’s hurting them. The being below him. Fragile like a bird caged in his crippling embrace._

_It’s then he finally sifts through the fog enough to define the face that keeps him up at night. The face and body and thoughts of a boy who crawled inside his mind and made it his home._

_Timmy_

_He’s crying now. Silent tears. His nails sink into Armie’s tense shoulder blades, engraving their moon mark._

_“Timmy?” Armie asks cluelessly, not recognizing his own voice. The hands of his look like his but foreign, unaware of their own presence attached to Armie’s body._

_Timmy looks terrified. The eyes Armie had recognized in himself when he had been only fourteen, saw his mom slumped over dead, alcohol bottle still in hand._

_Armie’s eye ended up resting her beloved mirror. It was an purposely aged frame, made in 60s Holland, it was beautiful when she bought it. Shiny and precious to her. The reflecting shine of her rum bottle in her limp hand not so pretty anymore._

_Timmy fingers suddenly latch onto him painfully, a crazed look blooming in his eyes._

_“Hurt me. Hurt me. I know you want to. I know you need it. I need it. I really need it.”_

_The words are drowning him._

_No, he wants to scream, his hands close around Timmy’s throat instead, choking him._

_It's so constricting. Feels the way every finger presses deep, white pressure marks forcing away any oxygen. Timmy struggles but submits nonetheless. An angel with paralyzed wings._

_Tim wheezes. He wants to stop but his hands won’t release. A mind of their own in full control._

_He’s sinking lower and lower._

_Timmy’s eyes glaze, turning wicked in a split second. His narrow sharp chin softening, his lips staining a dirty pink. His hair stretching out, growing like tree branches._

_Blonde, bleach blonde hair. Blue eyes._

_His mother._

_She laughs wickedly, her eyes wide, on edge of popping out her head._

_“I knew it! You animal. My so called son. Don’t you see what you’ve done? All the pain you caused me?”_

_Her hands are suddenly on his throat, frail hands feeling like concrete weights._

_“Hugging the bottle every night because my son does me no good,” she hisses, he closes his eyes, body convulsing as his head swims._

_“All you cause is pain….”_

_He blacks out._

He chokes, coughing heavily as he leans up in a panic. He whips his head around, heart pumping in his ear drums. It’s his room. His James Bond poster is beside his TV and his dirty clothes basket is half empty.

His pits are damp, cold sweat is the filthiest feeling. The nightmare crawling all over him still.

“Fuck,” he exhales, chest heaving softer as his pulse starts to run gently.

He heads to the shower.  
~

He gets into work with a frown etched deep on his face. He ran into his front door as he’d been leaving and topped it off with spilling hot coffee on his sleeve, soaking through the fabric and leaving his skin an angry pink.

He feels a headache creeping on.

Stan nods as greeting, passing him quickly in the backstage hall with Stacey.

“Stace, honey, I’ve been in this business for fourteen years, the money shot goes in the last chorus..”

Armie rolls his eyes, fucking douche.

If eyes could kill.

He hangs his jacket on the wall rack, sighing as he pops the kink in his neck with a quick stretch.

“Timmy, you should think about telling him.”

Armie tenses immediately, hearing the concern in Jackie’s voice.

The door to the dressing room is cracked. He feels guilty but (not too much) as he presses close, listening. Waiting.

A soft hitch of breath.

“I know.”

Silence.

The dressing door opens.

Armie jolts back by a step.

Timothée, wide eyed and seemingly paranoid Armie was listening, crosses his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“I- um-“ (make up a lie) “I wanted to see how you were feeling.”

Timmy squints suspiciously at him, before nodding, (thank God).

“I’m okay, I puked again but otherwise I feel fine,” he shrugs.

(More sickness?)

“What do you think it is?” Armie gets out with a lump forming a space in his throat. Suddenly feeling nervous for reasons he can’t completely explain.

Timmy looks down, like he’s searching for something. His sparkly black shorts look designer along with the crop top it’s paired with (maybe it is.)

“Maybe it’s a cold..,” Timmy says drearily, not meeting his piercing gaze, his pale lithe fingers anxiously picking the hem of his shorts, pulling at them to cover more of his thighs.

“Or maybe I’m pregnant.”

Pregnant.

(Pregnant)

Pregnant?

“What?” he coughs awkwardly, no way.

Just looking at Timmy while the thought plays in his head hurts.

The thought of Timmy having to deal with all that for him. He’s too young and he deserves so many more options.

Timmy eyes look wet or maybe Armie’s just hallucinating. There’s a frown creeping into that cherub face as Timmy’s eyes downcast.

“I’m not saying I am. It’s a possibility though. We haven’t used protection the last two times,” Timmy whispers, looking vulnerably defeated. Like the verdict is already out.

“Fuck,” he admits openly, regretting the way Tim winces.

Awkward silence latches between them for a moment.

“So, If I was, what would you think?”

Armie sighs, looking him over. A good seven inches shorter than himself, that heartbreaking boyish face and docile look that haunts his eyes are enough for Armie to know his suddenly idealised image of Timothée is perverse and wrong.

Timmy all swollen, tired and hormonal because of Armie’s child making a home inside the cradle of his narrow hips.

“I’d think you’re too young,” Armie says logically instead of allowing his fantasies fog his decision.

Timmy narrows his eyes, a look of defiance appearing in them.

“I’m nineteen.”

“Exactly.”

Timothée rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t think I was too young when you fucked me.”

Armie cringes at how guilty it makes him sound.

“I’m only nine years older than you,” he defends, pulling Timmy by the arm as Jackie brushes past them without a word, obviously late for her stage call.

“That’s not the point.”

Armie grits his teeth, “drop it. We don’t even know if you’re knocked up for sure, I’ll buy you the morning after pill to be safe.”

“What if I want it?” Timmy blinks, suddenly sounding fragile again.

“That’s instinctual for a mother to want their child.”

“I’d want the father to want it too,” Timothée admits with a certainty, the words gnaw Armie’s conscience.

Armie sighs tiredly, conflicted and lost on what to say. Ignores the way his stomach flutters at the thought of Timmy with a baby on his hip.

So he doesn’t say a word. Instead Armie brushes a loose curl out of Timmy’s face, by the way Tim’s eyes flutter shut for a second he can tell it’s an improvement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?💕


	8. Innocent in my loneliness

**October 31st**

It’s been two weeks since they last fucked.

Two weeks since Timothée mentioned the possibility of pregnancy.

He doesn’t try to think about it. (Doesn’t try doesn’t mean he doesn’t)

It’s glued on his mind. Feelings of elation, doubt and worry brewing in the mix. He doesn’t know what he’d say or do if Timmy really is pregnant. The thought terrifies him. The level of responsibility and needed expectations of him is not something Armie fully trusts himself with.

He really, really adores Timmy. Likes his smile, the scrunch of his nose when he laughs. The pondering look in his eye when he rubs his bruises.

Likes the thought of him being his. How he allows Armie to take relief and warmth from his body.

He likes all that he’s seen but it’s just a graze of the surface. To truly know and love someone you have to see their soul stripped down at their hardest moments.

Armie may not know much, but he knows enough that Timmy is completely worth trying for.

He thinks one day Timmy will tell him everything.  
~

Halloween night has been dragging on like Armie knew it would.

He sighs frustratedly, sweat clinging to the dips of his back as he pushes through the crowd. It’s packed. Elbows thrusting with the dubstep blasting through the speakers.

Timmy hadn’t come out yet to perform. They haven’t spoken much recently, just the casual greetings and averted eyes.

It’s somehow both bothersome and relieving.

Jackie’s like his new bodyguard, she brings him take out and scowls at the boys who don’t like him. It’s kind of endearing if Armie wasn’t intimidated. Armie likes Jackie, she’s sharp mouthed and funny, but that doesn’t mean he’s not jealous of how close she is to Tim.

The crowd soars towards the main stage as Stacey whips her hair, bent over shaking her ass in a devil outfit. If you can even call it an outfit, a red bra with sharp points at the nipples, a g string with a cheap devil tail attached to it. Her crown of horns long discarded inches from her 5 inch heels.

The dubstep ends, fading out as she winks, waving her tail till she pushes past the backstage curtain.

“Oh Ms. Devil, Ms. Seductive, can we all give it up for MS. STACEY STACE,” The hired DJ booms into the microphone. He’s not someone Armie’s ever heard of before but he’s good enough to rev up the crowd.

Armie looks over his shoulder, spotting KJ embracing a chubby, blonde white girl. She’s clearly drunk, tall enough she can wrap her arms around his neck. KJ catches his eyes and shrugs, her mouth finding his neck.

Armie rolls his eyes as KJ slips out of her grasp, a typical line of “I’ll hit you up sometime,” leaving his lips.

KJ wears a filthy grin as he slides in place beside Armie, elbowing him playfully in the ribs.

“Thiccums wanted the meat,” he chides, eyeing the crowd for any lingering sign of her.

Armie wrinkles his nose in disgust, “thiccums?”

KJ whistles, “you know how I like em. Something real thick and sweet, love it when I can really get a grip on the hips.”

“Yeah, I know more about that than I’d like to,” Armie replies easily, grimace still playing on his lips about how easy she’d been on him. How so easily KJ could’ve had her. It’s far from Armie’s type.

Armie likes them narrow. Likes them sweet, beautiful and sharp mouthed. Likes them brunette and pale. Likes them smart, thoughtful and a natural ability of care.

He likes Timmy.

Only Timmy. He can’t imagine anyone he’s ever known to compare.

It’s a little disheartening and sad to him. How he wishes he had control on what level he feels.

Timmy just gets under his skin unlike no one else.

“Oh I know what you like,” KJ says, clicking his tongue.

“Yeah,” Armie states flatly before Kj can say something slick.

“You really are something bro,” KJ laughs, noticing Armie’s defensive tone, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “what was that about not dating nobody at the club?”

Armie sighs, watching the crowd separate towards the dancing strippers on the sidelines, the main stage still awaiting the next performer.

“It’s complicated man, I mean, Timmy’s really something.”

KJ furrows his thick, black brows, darkening his gaze. The orange spotlight casting his dark skin in a glow.

“He’s something alright,” KJ repeats, adding emphasize on the words like he means something entirely different than Armie does.

The little snicker KJ adds crawls like cock roaches at Armie’s nerves.

“Do you got a problem with Timmy or something?” he asks straight out, gritting his teeth.

KJ shrugs, “nah man, I ain’t worried bout your little side piece.”

Armie rolls his eyes, knocking into KJ’s shoulder with his own.

Instead of feeding the fire, Armie drops the bomb instead.

“I might’ve knocked him up,” he sighs, avoiding the inevitable disappointed look KJ will give him.

“Like, gotten him pregnant?”

“Like, put a _fucking_ baby in him, yes, gotten him pregnant.”

KJ groans, “jesus fucking Christ, bruh.”

Armie wants to agree, wants to bicker about it but he can’t, something inside him stops him, makes the words he wants to say feel wrong.

“Fuck, I _know_.”

KJ listens quietly, grabbing for a stumbling girl in too high heels, she giggles loudly, “oh thank you,” she grins and fixes her dress, squeezing her cleavage together flirtingly.

She saunters off in a pink tight dress that Armie can’t find the care to sexualize, watching KJ smile after her like a dog in heat.

Armie steps aside as a group of people line out, loud twenty year olds with high pitched annoying voices.

“Shit, I don’t know what to say. Wasn’t expecting you to make that skinny white boy your baby mama.”

Armie nearly laughs if the situation wasn’t so fucked.

“I don’t know how to feel about it,” Armie groans, visions of Timmy being filled out and heavy with his child playing like an choppy film reel in his mind.

Soft, soft skin. Timmy’s long legs bent underneath himself as he caresses his raised belly. Armie’s baby swishing inside the safe home of Timmy’s uterus.

It’s overbearing.

“Fuck, it’s all I can think about.”

KJ actually looks like he feels bad, “shit, man.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, bringing to the stage is a dancer who is extra creamy and sugary. Give it up for SWEET TEA.”

Armie heart beat stutters at the announcement of Timmy’s stage name, it’s a little play on the word ‘sweetie.’

Silver heads line the area around the stage.

A melancholic melody of guitar starts up, something distinct that makes the hairs on his forearm stand on edge, so distinct.

Love hurts.

(Fuck)

Timmy steps out, pale long legs glistening unlike ever before.

(Holy shit)

He looks every inch of the Timmy Armie idolizes inside his head.

A pale white babydoll dress on him. Silk, thin straps, It’s nothing like a stripper outfit, it’s classier, honey moon like.

The men in the front row are drooling over him, Armie gnaws on his bottom lip, wishing for a cigarette.

Timothée isn’t strutting confidently like he usually does, he’s slow in his walk, unsure. Vulnerable unlike he usually allows to enter his stage persona.

He eyes the crowd with an saucer gaze.

**Love hurts**

**Love scars**

He swirls smoothly down the silver pole, pink strobe lights somber and sluggish as it circles him.

All eyes are on him. Armie’s breath is held.

Falls on his bony knees, slides onto his back, arching off the floor. The dress riding up his waist, his back bowing like Armie would imagine a Ballerinas.

**Love wounds and marks**

**Any heart not tough or strong enough**

**To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain**

The bass matches the ache in Armie’s heart.

He raises up, grabbing the pole and turning upside down in such a swift fashion it looks magical, his underwear being exposed.

Armie bites his tongue till it hurts.

(That’s jealousy pumping in your veins)

There was definitely pink hearts on the hips.  
~

Armie overhears it as he’s switching into his more casual sneakers.

“What was that _Timmy_?” in a sickly false tone.

“I know what you said but I think it looked better.”

Armie squints.

“Oh no honey, you remember whose in control right? Whose the boss here?”

He gets up right in mere seconds, thoughts racing as he strides to the dressing room door, just a sound away from busting down that door if need be.

He cracks the door as quietly as possible, more sounds becoming audible.

“You don’t always got to be a douche you know.”

“You and I both know who makes the choices here,” Stan says, sliding back strands of his hair, he’s thinning and his brown hair coming in grey. He stood a good three feet from Timmy, only touching the fabric of an outfit Armie can’t fully see.

“This would’ve looked so sexy on you doll,” Stan hums, stroking the black fabric.

“You wanted me to look like a vampire prostitute,” Tim scoffs, using a makeup pad to wipe off his mascara.

“It would’ve sold better than your obsession with being the Virgin Mary,” Stanley states sarcastically, grabbing the garment Timmy had worn and looking it over in his large tan hands.

“I’m sorry I didn’t want to look cheap,” Timmy snaps.

Stan stills. Armie’s gut sinks when they flicker at the door.

“You’re a _stripper_ baby, not a star.”

Timothée’s eyes flood with an emptiness Armie can finally pinpoint. He stays quiet.

Armie leaves the door.


	9. Wanna be good

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Timmy says, thumbing at a loose thread on the hem of his little black dress. Armie can’t say he isn’t distracted.

Armie avoids looking at Timmy so he can actually pay attention to what he’s saying. The burn of his knuckles hurts bad as he dribbles a little of his rum on the newly formed crescent shaped cuts, he curses under his breath.

“Are you even listening to me?”, Timmy asks angrily, leaning against the bar top.

It’s been a couple days since Armie really drank and the fight he dealt with tonight is enough of reasoning for him to reward himself with some hazy, buzzed estacy.

“I heard you, I just think it’s bullshit.”

Timothée scoffs, Armie looks down at his own lap, his peripheral vision getting an eye full of Timmy’s bare legs and it’s a cruel punch to the gut.

“Bullshit?” Timmy repeats, his voice cracking.  
Armie doesn’t say anything in response. He doesn’t know what say. He doesn’t know how to be nice to him either. Something about treating him gently seems too intimate and revealing.

As much as he’d like to wipe that frown off Timothée’s face with a kiss, as much as he’d like to pull him into his lap and cover his shoulders with his jacket like a gentlemen he can’t find the courage within himself.

(You’re just like your father)

The thought makes a sore spot inside him, swelling in his gut and leaving a dreaded taste in his mouth. The thought wasn’t in his own voice, though it was a familiar females voice that makes Armie’s hair stand on edge.  
He hopes it’s not true.

“Fuck- fine,” Timmy huffs at Armie’s lack of attention, turning around to leave the bar.

Like a newly formed instinct he grabs Timmy’s waist to stop him, feeling his fingers burn at the touch. He never touches him out here. Even though it’s empty and there’s only a couple workers left cleaning up it’s something and that’s enough for Armie to consider this a win of improvement.

“Wha-?” Timmy says, confused and winded as Armie places him on his lap, wrapping his arms protectively and firm around him.  
Timmy’s immediately warm, smooth and velvety to the touch. Armie can feel his own breathing and watches the star shaped freckles on Timmy’s shoulder move as he shifts his arm.

“You’re warm,” Armie hums, smushing his cheek against Timmy’s back.

Usually, in any other time where he’s been pressed against Timmy like this he’d been hard, having filthy little thoughts in his head and pressing his fingers into a fogged up mirror, this is completely different. On a different level somehow. It’s so small, so chaste and warm that it makes him feel like a better man for once.

“You’re cuddly today,” Timmy whispers, entwining their fingers unsurely.

“I’m being nice,” Armie says, usually it’d be a biting statement but instead he smiles with a genuinty he hasn’t felt in forever.

Timmy turns side ways, now lounging over his lap with one arm wrapping behind Armie’s shoulders.

Now that Armie can visibly see his face he feels wordless.

Timmy’s expression is painful. So raw and open that Armie can hardly put words to it.  
Timmy smiles, not full on but a twitch of his lip, like he’s not fully allowing himself to enjoy this. His eyes remain lonely and Armie thought doing this would make it go away.

“Do you want me right now?”

The words ache and Armie doesn’t even know what they mean.

“Want you…” Armie repeats in confusion, “want you how?”

Tim stops breathing for a second. Armie swears he can hear his pounding heart in his ears.

“Backstage, for what we usually do,” Timmy sighs, looking down. A tiny crease filling between his thick brows.  
It hurts.

“Fuck, Timmy, that’s not the only reason we hangout,” Armie swears, gripping his waist tighter. Harsher. Firm like he’s worried Tim’s thin little body will slip through his fingers.

Timmy closes his eyes at that and seconds later, rests his head on Armie’s shoulder.“ Okay,” Timothée hums. In that moment Armie learns that sometimes nice things are simple.

“Yo Arm- oh shit, uh,” KJ coughs fakely, words sputtered as he spots Timmy’s pale legs strewn on his own, his brunette curls rested on his shoulder.

“I’m out bro,” KJ says, ignoring Tim's existence completely.

Armie waves him off with one finger, noticing the knowing look KJ purposely sends him.

The stereo at the bar is the only one not shut off, old rock softly humming through it.

Kenny’s paid them no mind, wiping his last glass with a pale rag.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Timothée murmurs, lips ghosting over the delicate space on Armie’s neck, right near his jugular.

“He doesn’t know you.”

Timmy shakes his head a tad, “no, we’ve spoke a couple times.”

“About?”

Timmy exhales slowly, “just work mostly, but he just seems to have something against me.”

“That’s just how KJ is,” Armie sighs. He’s wondered about it himself.

He rubs a hand down Timmy’s hip, content with just the constant reminder that this moment is real. That the clamber of long, warm limbs in his lap is all Timmy.

“Well there,” a sudden deep voice states.

Timmy nearly falls out of his lap, standing up by almost tripping.

Stan grabs Timmy by his arm, it looks more so gripping than steadying.

“Careful, you wouldn’t want to hurt yourself now would you Timmy?”

Stan looks between them, a deep frown on his face and Armie feels like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t.

He’d get involved but somehow this situation feels delicate. He doesn’t want to get Timmy fired nor himself but so many words are on the tip of his tongue.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Timmy blinks, the look he sends Armie isn’t like before. It's indistinguishable.

“Good,” Stan states, pulling Timmy to walk with him.

“He just fell in my lap,” Armie lies terribly.

Stan stops, looking back and rolling his eyes, “I’m sure,” he replies sarcastically.

Armie grimaces, Stan’s annoyed. It’s whatever. Armie didn’t cross any lines. The rule is not allowing relationships to interfere with the professionalism of the club, not that he can’t have one with someone there. As long as he doesn’t let any customers see him being intimate towards Timmy it shouldn’t be a problem.

His mind randomly reminds him of what KJ hinted at weeks ago.

It renews the old burn of anxiety in his veins. He swallows his last shot of rum thickly.

(Lies. It's a lie)

KJ was just busting his balls, was just trying to get under his skin. There’s no way Timmy let’s Stan who’s twice his age have him like that, no fucking way.

“He fell in my lap? Really, that's the best you could come up with?” Kenny says with a chuckle. Armie blinks it confusion till the words revive clarity.

“Fuck I know, it was bad,” Armie groans, pressing the cold empty glass ashamedly to his reddened cheek.

Kenny nods, “fuck yeah it was, Stan’s real protective over Tim.”

Armie squints. Head panging over an oncoming headache.

“And why is that?”

Kenny pulls on his leather jacket, shrugging, “they have history or something. Stan told me to look out for him a couple nights before Tim started working here.”

“Timmy’s just young, even Jackie’s been parenting him," Armie tries to reason. (Mostly to himself)

Kenny grins at the thought, wrinkles deepening under his dark lidded eyes, “yeah, Jackie sure loves the kid.”

Armie nods, his lip quirking, and yeah Jackie cares for him. It’s a nice thought now that he looks at in a different light. Timmy deserves so much love.


	10. Coldly Tender

It’s been a month and things have changed.

Timmy seems to only see him secretly now, they talk backstage and in dim corners, never at the bar anymore. It’s sacred. A veiled protection for what Armie doesn’t know.

Stanley has been on his ass lately, more demanding with his tone towards Armie. Armie’s patience in holding his tongue is wearing thin.

(Armie wants to fucking rock him)

_“KJ's leading out Stacey I need you in the front,” Stan says, squinting at his watch._

_He nods in agreement, pulling his shoelace tight._

_Timmy appears from behind the stage curtain, pink blush on his cheeks and a familiar giggle on his lips as he sends the audience one last wave._

_They catch eyes. Timmy’s heavy lidded, breathy and tired as soon as his smile fades._

_Stan makes the air stale._

_“To the front,” Stanley repeats, hard._

_Timothée diverts his gaze_.

He closes his eyes, rubs them and sighs.

He’s in a weird place. His mother’s been on his mind more often than not these days. Her voice in his head, reading his thoughts, aggravating him.

He loved her truly. He did, but his childhood was too bitter to be sweet.

His childhood still leaves a resin of memories burnt into his temples when he falls asleep at night. He still sees his dad leaving for the last time, still sees the emptiness that had overtaken his mother, swallowed her whole.  
~

The night is coming to an end, it’s four and Armie’s irritation is settling in once more.

Stanley is relentless. He made him tidy a spill of wine by the bar earlier (which isn’t his fucking job). Secondly, (and even worse) he’s made a point of treating Timmy’s every need in front of him.

Getting him Advil and taking off his socks for Christ sakes. Timothée had just smiled and let him, accepting it as a kind gesture.

It rumbles an anger in Armie that he hasn’t felt in years. He can revive the taste, image and gut wrenching moment it forces him back to.

_“Ma?” Armie calls, twelve and scruffy. His baseball bat clenched in his hands as he shuts the door behind himself, an unknown Silver Pontiac in their driveway._

_Silence. Then, a mutual chuckle._

_Armie’s nerves spike. He slowly creeps into the kitchen._

_His mom, her legs tight around an older looking man. His grey hair peaking out through her caressing fingers. They’re having sex on the counter._

_He holds his breath and turns away before she catches him, before she notices the hope in his eyes die._

_He runs up the steps, skipping some as tears smear his vision._

_His bedroom door is so promising. The little Batman stickers on the door could do him no harm._

_He enters his bed and crawls up under the covers, his toes peak out and he doesn’t bother to hide them. All the monsters in life are real. They don’t hide in closets or below naïve children’s beds, they hide in a parent’s fake smile, a mother’s lie, a dad’s promise._

_He sobs and begs God for forgiveness of all the wrongs he’d ever committed. Wonders if this is him paying the price._

_She said she wouldn’t let another using man get between them. Armie’s tired of forgetting names and counting trips they never went on._

_The taste of betrayal isn’t forgiving._

So he watches, bites his tongue and waits.

He heads outside for a cigarette. He bought two off Jackie for a dollar each and fuck if it isn’t worth it.

He feels his stress deflate like a balloon in his chest as he inhales the cold, fresh air.

Lights up, reddens the tip, inhales.

It’s a sweet simmering burn that fills him. Makes him taste life.

Every puff is sensual relief. He feels married to it.

“Fuck,” he sighs, closing his eyes and resting against the distressed alley brick.

The door shuts audibly. He pops the stiffness in his neck as his eyes fall on Timmy, he drags hard on the cherry.

“What’s up, _buttercup_?” he jokes, a bit bitterly to be exact.

Timmy looks pale in his red robe, holds it tighter to himself in the cold air of fleeting December.

“Why are you acting like this?” Timothée quips and crosses his arms, a squinted look of annoyance etching onto his angelic face.

“Well aren’t you everyone’s buttercup? I mean,” he chuckles, deep and rough, “first your Jackie’s favorite boy, now your Stan’s, but you were _mine_ ,” he grits out, hating that he instantly grabs Timmy by the arm.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Timothée hisses, his eyes matching how coldly he said it.

“ _Stan_ ,” Armie bites.

Timmy shakes his head, his hair whipping at his cheek bones, “Stan doesn’t own me.”

“KJ told me.”

Tim reddens, “KJ doesn’t know shit.”

“Does he not?” Armie squares his jaw as he inhales sharply.

Timmy pushes out of his hold, walking feet away but not going inside, “you need to stop smoking.”

It makes Armie honk a laugh.

“You only stopped smoking two months ago,” he counters, exhaling the thick cloud of smoke.

He watches him with those eyes.

Timmy nods, serious expression on his face, “if it’s bad for babies than it’s bad for me.”

“Its bad for everyone, and you aren’t even pregnant,” Armie says.

Tim doesn’t say a word, sighs softly and looks up, his neck elongated with his tilt. He looks heavenly, warm and comfy.

The moon shines on him, loves his arches, every curve of his bones and every tiny bump of mole on his skin. It loves him because how could it not?

Timmy winces, immediately going to touch his lower abdomen.

Armie strides to him, closing the feet between them.

“Something wrong?” he asks, furrowing his brow and dropping his defeated cigarette, crushing it with a somber crinkle.

Timmy blinks, Armie brushes two thick, fallen curls out of his face.

“Hurts, it’s cramps,” he says, looking down.

He sighs, not knowing how he can help.

Armie wraps an caring arm around Timmy’s waist, supporting him as Tim whines under his breath, burying his face in Armie’s chest.

“Does this happen often?” he whispers, muffled a little in Timmy’s hair. He can switch to so gentle for him.

Timmy shakes his head, “not usually,” his fingernails dig into Armie’s cotton hoodie.

It makes him think of Timothée’s status. All his life he’d been told that male carrier’s bodies work partly like a females, cramps, periods and all. He’d never been close to one like he is with Timmy before, it’s new and a bit scary to him.

He has to remind himself to be careful with Timmy unlike men he has had flings with in the past. Carrier’s are said to be more emotional and hormonal than most men. He doesn’t mind it though. If anything he loves treating Tim softly. Nice, quiet and tender moments seem to be the best they’ve had.

“Where does it hurt?”

He softly touches his belly before Timmy answers, it’s weird how naturally it comes to him. Like instinctual.

Timothée’s belly is swollen a little, feeling tender and warm. It’s not flat like he remembers it.

His mouth goes dry.

“I should be starting my period soon,” Timmy mutters, pulling away.

Something in Armie makes Timothée’s sentence taste like a lie.


	11. Tell tale

The next night he is early to work which is extremely unusual for Armie but he’s bubbling up inside with thoughts. He's to the point he fears all his thoughts will burn out to the wrong people. He just needs a shoulder to rest on and a cigarette.

He’s got one person in mind and it’s like the devil hears him thinking.

KJ.

KJ’s at the bar, catches his eye and smiles wide, tips his head back and shuts his eyes as he gulps a full shot.

It’s opening time and only the typical customers are there. Andrew the lawyer is there, first seat on the left like usual. He comes for Stacey, gives big tips and is generally quiet, Armie’s bummed a couple cigarettes off the guy himself.

He shrugs off his jacket, starting to sweat at his pits. He’s anxious as fuck and doesn’t want word getting around but he has to tell somebody.

Just steps away from the bar.

“Armie.”

(For fuck sakes)

“Yes? He says professionally, putting on an painfully obvious fake smile, turning towards the intruding voice.

“I want to talk with you in private,” Stan states, a glint in his eye as he slicks back his oiled hair with four, thick fingers.

He looks around, biting his cheek when he notices KJ witnessing the ordeal.

“Alright,” he sighs, following behind him.

(This can’t be good)

~

The door to Stan’s office shuts and it feels so grave.

He’s about to be fired. He’s sure of it.

(Keep it cool)

“Yes?” he asks tightly.

Stan walks around his desk, sits in his leather swivel chair like he’s at his utmost powerful in it. (Prick)

“Well, I wanted to speak to you on a few things,” he begins, clasping his hands together firmly and eyeing Armie carefully.

Armie’s throat feels deathly dry.

Thoughts of Timmy come to mind.

(Fucking into him fast, covering his mewls and broken cries with his hand. Thoughts of mine mine mine in his head)

“Yeah?” he croaks.

“Respect,” he grits out demandingly, his wrinkles deepening in intensity as he smolders at Armie, “do you respect me, Armie?”

Armie clears his throat, his tongue feels too thick too speak.

(Anxiety swirls like a river in his veins)

“Do you respect this business? What’s mine?”

“Of course I do,” he snarls, looking away before his anger snaps his will power like a frail little twig.

“You better,” Stanley finalizes, his casual plaid button up wrinkling as he leans back, manspreading in his chair purposely.

“What’s this about?” he quips, narrowing his eyes.

Stan has no fucking right.

“ _Timmy_.”

(He feels like he’s drowning)

“What?” he sputters dumbly.

(He fucking knows)

“What do you mean what?” Stan scowls, “he’s our it boy, our little money maker, I don’t need you getting him pregnant.”

“For fuck sakes,” Armie says, “I’ve never even touched him.”

(Lies. Lies. Lies. You’re a liar)

Stanley slams his fist down on the oak top of his desk, “don’t play fucking stupid with me Armie, I’ll have your ass fired in two seconds, now tell me, no, fucking _promise_ me you’ll be safe with him, that I can goddamn trust you?”

He squares his jaw, clenching his teeth till it hurts.

“Fine.”

Stan swallows at that, his posture visibly relaxing the tenseness that’d been in it.  
Armie clears his throat.

“Can I go now?”

Stan nods, grins, “it was nice talking to you.”  
Armie makes sure to slam the door behind him.

~

“Fuck, I’m so fucked,” Armie hisses, clenching his fists as he strides back in forth.

“You needa relax man,” KJ says, scowling at Armie’s behavior.

“I can’t, fuck. First Timmy might be pregnant and now Stan’s on my ass about firing me, I’m just fucked right now,” he blurts out, sending glares of agitation to KJ's indifference.

“Just chill, you don’t even know if he is for sure, man.”

“I felt his belly and-“

“And?”

“He felt… bigger, fuck, I don’t know. It’s just the way he reacted makes me think he’s lying to me.”

KJ stays silent for a moment, “damn.”

~

Armie loathes himself for it but can’t help himself.

Timmy’s giggling with Jackie besides the bar, Armie’s pulse is soaring hotly. Stan left an hour ago and Armie’s three shots deep, he feels good.

“Hey _baby_ ,” he whispers, striding up besides Timmy and whispering it in his hair.

Timmy jumps, Armie steadies him, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder.

“Are you drunk?” Timmy smiles, wide eyed and pretty. His happiness at the gesture is evident, makes Armie’s heart warm at the glow of his cheeks

“No, I’m happy,” Armie smiles in return, he pulls Timmy along with him, “and I wanna have a couple drinks with you.”

(Tick tock)

“Are you sure? I mean-“ Timmy looks around curiously, “what if Stan sees?”

Armie kisses his cheek playfully, tapping the bar chair beside him, “we don’t have to worry about Stan since Stan ain’t here.”

Tim looks between him and the chair uncertainly, Armie’s gut feels an oncoming flutter of worry.

(Maybe he really is)

“Come on,” he winks.

Timmy slowly sits down, squirming his chair to get comfortable.

“What do you want?” Armie asks, settling a grip on Tim’s thigh. He hasn’t yet changed into his stage attire, the casual jeans he’s wearing aren’t as smooth as them.

“Just coke,” Tim whispers softly, smiling innocently.

“No way, you’re drinking like an adult.”

Kenny comes over, raising a brow at Armie to give his order.

“Two rums and two vodkas, straight.”

“Coming right up,” Kenny says, placing his pen behind his ear.

“I’m not drinking that,” Timmy mutters.

He turns towards him, “why not?”

“I’m underage,” Timmy replies easily.

“Bullshit, you never had a problem drinking here before.”

“Well now I do,” Timmy states, looking down.

“Are you going to tell me the truth?”

Tim looks up immediately, his stare nervously skimming across Armie’s face, “what are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he quips, his gaze on him heavy and steely.

“Then what is it?” Timmy asks, eyes wide, full of feigned naivety.

Armie rolls his eyes, “you know I’m not going to announce it in here.”

Kenny places the drinks down before him, looking between them quickly.

“Thanks,” Armie chides, downing one of the rum before pushing the empty glass back.  
“Come on,” he says easily, grabbing Timmy’s wrist.

The club is packing up. Mostly men tonight flooding the floor, it’s hip hop night and the girls working the poles are dancing to The Weeknd, fake gold chains dangling from their waists.

He opens the door for him, the cold air forcing it’s way past them refreshingly.

The moon watches them immediately. It’s bright and full tonight. All the little craters like freckles on it.

He’s turned away from Timmy. Can hear the silence, can feel his warmth just a foot away.

“Tell me,” he whispers, voice cracking like the broken glass under his shoes.

Tim makes soft inhales and holds his words.  
Armie turns to look at him.

Glowing pale and delicate like the moon, there he is, crying soft and weakly. His bottom lip trembling like Armie’s nerves, his teary eyes watery and vulnerable.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he cries, closing the distance between them and wrapping his arms around his neck, sobs being buried in his chest.

Armie feels tears stinging at his eyes. A flood wave crashing over him. It’s real. It’s true.

“Fuck, Timmy,” he grits out, clenching his teeth so he doesn’t break down. "Why couldn’t you trust me?” he murmurs into Timothée’s curls, pangs of hurt in his chest.

Timmy sniffles, pulling back to look at him, “I didn’t want you to hurt me.”


	12. Busted mirror

**Later on, 3:49 a.m**

Armie lifts Timmy’s long, frail legs, placing them in his lap. They’re always silky smooth. Armie assumes he shaves them for the pole.

“So, how far along?” he asks softly, his thumb digging into Tim's heel, smoothing his other fingers in the crevice of his arch.

Timmy looks up fleetingly as he watches Armie rub his sore feet.

“Three months,” he says, looking down ashamedly. The sleeves of his casual shirt hanging off him, Armie wonders if it’s even his.

Armie inhales in thought.

“I was scared,” Timmy adds, whispering it like a hurt animal. His cheeks hinting a tart pink shade.

“Of what? Me?”

“Everything,” Timmy hisses, raising his voice in complete frustration.

The backstage lights reflect pretty on Timmy. His nose, lips and lashes framed by the soft, elegant glow of a pink bulb out in the hallway.

“I understand,” Armie admits truthfully, soothingly rubbing his narrow, knobby ankles.

(Three months ago he knows his reaction would been entirely different. He would’ve been pissed. Would’ve blamed Timmy for his body’s ability instead of taking the blame himself)

Armie been creeping to the edge of accepting reality lately. You can’t run from your problems forever.

“So, what do you think about it, the baby?”  
Timmy says it, lithe body tensing in his hands like he wants to hide away.

Armie grabs him then to show him instead, pulling him up by his ass into his lap, settling him facing each other. He pecks Timmy's dry lips chastely, watching him carefully.

Timothée gasps quietly as Armie touches his belly up his shirt, letting his forearms rest around Armie’s neck. His sad doll eyes looking down at him, slow blinks and his pupils wide. Black.

“A-anyone can see,” Timmy complains worriedly, trying to move off.

Armie grips his hip, stilling him into submission as he jostles around in his own pocket to find what he looking for.

“Look,” he smirks, jiggling the lanyard.

Timmy’s eyes widen, “how’d you get that?”

Smiling with a wink, “your girl.”

Realization blooms on Timmy’s face, “Jackie,” he says, the fleeting smile on his face turning to worry, “don’t let Stan find out.”

Armie rubs his soft cheek, then his little bump, “I won’t,” he promises.

~

“I can’t,” Timmy whines, blushing red.

“You can,” Armie whispers, settling him down gently.

“This is too weird,” Timmy complains, looking around at the objects around them like they’re too close for comfort.

He tries to jump down, his long legs almost there before Armie scoops him back up, feeling those plush limbs go lax as he presses their mutual hard on together.  
Timmy bites back a moan.

“You gonna be good for me, baby?” Armie rasps, stroking a huge hand down Timmy’s thighs. They’re wider now, his hips naturally making space for their fetus. Armie feels fueled on by pure possessiveness that stems from the empty, 'waiting to be claimed' look that haunts Timmy’s hooded eyes.

(You’ve already claimed him)

He bites down on the thin, ivory skin at Timmy’s collarbone, his fingers roughly skating across the bottom hem line of Tim’s shirt.

He ignores removing his shirt, it’s a plum shade of purple and makes his skin look all the more exquisite.

“Yes,” Timmy whispers, closing his eyes and spreading his legs wider.

Armie smiles with true elation, watching him fondly as he strokes his curls.

(All his)

“You’re mine.”

He states it so firmly, so factual that Timmy whimpers at the words like he’d touched him.

“Yes, daddy,” Timmy whispers breathily in his ear, leaning in to pull Armie’s hand down to palm his little bump of life.

He quirks a brow, his cock thickens, pulsing at the front of his pants.

“Daddy, huh?”

Timmy smiles toothily, kisses him.

~

Armie rails him into the desk like it’s the last time he’ll be able to touch Timmy like this. To have this beautiful, frail little creature debauched and exposed like this for him.

He made him cum twice just from his cock alone, Timmy’s smaller, paler and Pinker cock is now twitching softly against the little muffin rise of his belly everytime Armie pushes his thick cock back inside.

His womb hugs him softly, tightly. Snug and his, the home of where his future child resides. Timmy moans quietly, weak and tiredly at every thrust in his sore, reddened hole.

“So good for me, baby,” he praises, kissing along his neck as his hips snap into Timmy’s.  
Timothée let’s his head fall back against the desk, luckily Stan keeps his desk tidy, they have yet to break anything.

He feels the heat rising, bubbling up in his gut.

Thrusting deep and hard three more times, his body trembles all the way down to his toes. He collapses on Tim momentarily, regaining his composure, Timmy’s inners still milking his soft dick.

“Jesus, fuck,” he sighs, tiredly pulling out of Timothée’s warm body.

A slick, dribble of cum follows out, Timmy blushes, closing his legs.

“No more of that,” Armie whispers, stroking his knee.

“No more of what?” Timmy says, pulling himself up with a wince and searching for his discarded pants.

Armie pulls him to him, holding his waist, making him look at him in the eye.  
“Being shy.”

“Oh that,” Timmy smiles bashfully, knowing full well he is.

Armie cups his stomach, “and to answer your question earlier, this child is mine, and I take care of what’s mine, so that’s how I feel about it.”

Timmy looks away, starting to blink rapidly. (almost looking like he’s about to cry)

“Okay,” he utters near inaudible.

“What’s wrong?” Armie asks.

He then notices what Timmy is looking at, watches Timmy go over to it.

Timmy doesn’t pick up the pieces, doesn’t say anything at all, softly, delicately touches the broken glass like it’s the soft fur of a cat.

It’s a portrait that was sitting on Stanley’s desk. He doesn’t know how they didn’t hear it fall but it’s there, broken, a clatter full of worries on the floor.

It’s a picture of a woman, a woman that Armie doesn’t know. He bets it’s Stan’s ex wife, the one that he briefly mentions.

~

He cleaned up the glass for them, put the glassless frame back on the desk and he hopes (prays) Stan doesn’t notice. Armie would buy a new frame if the one Stanley used wasn’t goddamn custom made.

Timmy stayed silent during the whole ordeal, frowned and kept his eyes downcast.

“Can I drop you off?”

Tim looks at him, confused, “I usually get picked up.”

“Let me,” Armie says, not waiting for Timmy to disagree again.

~

On the drive home Timmy plays with his shirt sleeve and looks out the window the whole time.

Armie finds it strikingly attractive to see Timmy so casual. He’s calm and passive, if there are any words on his mind he doesn’t let them slip.

“I owe Jackie a pack of cigs for letting me be the key holder tonight, she sure knows how to win a bargain,” Armie tells him nonchalantly, attempting to make light conversation

“Jackie is smart,” Tim says quietly.  
Armie nods, watching the road.

“Is it coming up?”

Tim nods, “two more houses down, the left.”  
Timothée’s house is cute, small but decently homey looking. Very typical with just two bushes in the front yard.

“This is it,” Tim says, smiling at Armie tiredly.  
Armie rubs a thumb at the hole in the knee of Tim’s trousers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he raises his brows.

Timothée steps out, peering down into the wedge of the open window, “always.”

He flutters at that. Watches Timmy jog up the teeny yard to the porch which isn’t much bigger.

The door opens before Timmy.

Tim looks back briefly, waving Armie off as he heads inside.

~

That night when Armie goes to bed he starts to wonder who Tim lives with.


	13. The news

“So I’ve been meaning to ask..” Armie trails on, rehearsing under his breath. He doesn’t know how Timmy will act or respond to the the implication. He especially doesn’t want to start a fight. Not with Timmy being all flustered and hormonal.

 

Timmy is catching up very spontaneously in the pregnancy department and Armie feels as though he’s held his own tongue for far too long.

 

Timothée can barely dance at this point. He’s too sore all the time and tired. He’s been having to wear frilly tops to hide his five month pregnant belly.

 

All in all Armie really wishes he would quit.

 

_“You can’t continue working here, Timmy. Its not safe,” he’d said a mere month ago._

 

_“Why? I need money and I like doing what I do,” Timmy had said in defiance, crossing his long arms over his risen bump._

 

_“Do you?” Armie had said a little too quickly. (Shouldn’t have said at all)_

 

_He’d gotten a wince and an angered look in return._

 

_“Fuck you,” Timmy had hissed, edged with pain at all the corners. He stormed off before Armie could manage to string a list of genuine words together to fix things._

 

They’ve rekindled the next night after that. Armie brought him OJ and rubbed his tummy, words of true regret leaving his throat.

 

Now though, Timmy’s walking a thin line. He’s been overly anxious and insecure lately. Too many repeated worries of “do you think I’ll be a good enough parent?” and “I’m terrified to give birth” for Armie not to notice. Even though he does his dandest to uplift him it hardly works for more than five minutes.

 

Timmy’s crying in the back when he finds him.

 

“Shit, babe. What’s wrong?” he questions hurriedly, leaning down to touch his wet chin.

 

Tear tracks drip down his collarbone.

 

“He- he knows,” Timmy hiccups, rubbing his runny nose against Armie’s shirt when he falls into him.

 

“Stan?” Armie immediately registers, holding his small pregnant love within his hands.

 

“At first- he th- he thought I was just getting f- fat, but he now knows,” Timothée sobs. Hot wetness soaking the cotton and Armie feels pained for him.

 

“He’s just your boss, baby. You don’t have to work for him. I can take care of you if you’ll let me.”

 

That makes Timmy cry harder. His thin fingers digging deeper into Armie’s shoulder blades.

 

“I wanna be- independent,” Timmy sobs, hiccuping shaking between jagged breaths.

 

“You don’t need to be, and you don’t need him,” Armie grits his teeth. Fuck Stan for making Timmy feel this way.

 

“He’s _my_ stepdad,” Timmy hisses with built up aggression, stilling like a sculpture when he realizes what he’d done.

 

The air goes still.

 

“ _F_ \- what?” Armie croaks, his widespread shoulders going jittery underneath his brown Henley.

 

“Fuck,” Timmy says, blinking back more tears willing themselves to escape.

 

“But I thought-“

 

Timmy winces, not meeting his eyes. Maybe he’s incapable of doing so.

 

“But.. He flirts with you and- fuck,” he hisses furiously, a thought dawning on him. “I saw him touching your ass… and KJ told me-“

 

“He raped me, if that’s what you are asking,” Timmy quips dryly, like the words sting but not that he’ll let it show. Knowingly hiding what’s breaking him.

 

Armie sees _red_.

 

Pure, molten red. He feels it rise from his gut to his head, never-ending, over flowing lava bubbling up. All he can imagine is taking the life from the eyes of the man who’s given him his paycheck for the last couple years.

 

He rises on his feet because he’s been burnt from the core. This fire not dying till he can put Stan out.

 

“Please- Armie don’t-“

  
~

 

He doesn’t kill Stan.

 

The tiny rational part of his brain helped but the real cause is a crying, heart broken Timmy pulling on his sleeve.

 

Instead, he takes Timmy to his house to pack his things. Now knowing it belongs to Stan makes his gut crawl. Timmy has been  _living_  with him.

 

“I want to help,” he insists, looking at Timmy’s red eyes with earnest.

 

“I don’t want you to go in there...” Timmy whispers, looking down at his shivering palms.

 

“The baby is mine… it’s not his?” Armie feels like a shitstain person for asking, but it matters.

 

Timmy’s lip quivers, “He hasn’t… done anything to me since I started working at the club. It was like a payoff… I made him money so he would stop-“ he chokes up, looking away. Far away into the deep black abyss outside. The light glare of yellow streetlights highlighting his tear streaks so evidently.

 

Armie would ruin Stan if Timmy would allow him.

 

He swallows the numb lump in his throat and turns off his car.

 

“You’re pregnant. I’m helping,” he states, leaving no room for Timmy to decline as he opens his car door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!!! Im SUPER SORRY FOR THE WAIT 😩😩😩 I was going through a low time which gave me severe writers block. To all that's been missing this fic im sorry to you hanging! This fic will be completed. I will respond to any new comments, the old ones make me feel guilty :( thank you for the support!


	14. All for you

“I can put away my own things,” Timmy told him quietly, a smudge of scold and annoyance mixed in.

  
Armie narrows his eyes, a wave of bite gurgling in his chest.

  
“Timmy, I know you’ve had a hard life and all but sometimes a man just wants to help,” he quips a little too icily. Frowning at himself when Timothée's shoulders crumble in on themselves.

  
“ _Fine_ ,” Timmy grits out, dropping his luggage like it’s trash on the floor. Well, at least the external part is, Timmy had been incredibly adamant on not stealing Stan's suitcases so instead they just used black hefty trash bags.

  
“Don’t do that,” Armie groans, both from guilt and exhaustion.

  
Timmy stays quiet, turns away and idly starts touching the untouched cardboard boxes in the corner.

  
“Did you just move in?” Timmy whispers, soft like a mouse but loud enough Armie shivers at the sweetness of his pitch.

  
He swallows thickly.

  
“Yes.”

  
“When?”

  
“Three weeks ago.”

  
Timothée hums, sliding his tempted fingers off the box.

  
“You can look around, if you’d like,” Armie says nonchalantly, scratching the back of his neck idly.

  
The walls are a nude beige and the carpet is only a few shades darker. It’s plain but homey enough. Armie figured he needed something bigger.

  
Timothée goes towards the modern arch of the kitchen, stilling on his toes, an anxious twirl starting in his hips.

  
“Can I make myself a drink?” he asks shyly, barely holding a second of Armie’s gaze.

  
Armie scoffs in disbelief, “are you kidding?”

  
Timothée lips twitch with a grimace. Armie sets his clothes down on a chair and strides towards him in quick succession.

  
“I’m sorry,” Timmy grimaces, biting his bottom lip like unshed tears are soon to arrive.

  
“Timmy..” he frowns, a black filth invading his stomach with an odd pain. Timmy is a lot of work without any fault of his own. Armie can finally, truly admit to himself that Timmy is a true victim to the world’s cruelties.

  
He grabs both sensitive, shaking wrists softly, thumbing over the inner with a soothing drag.

  
“You never need to ask, ever. What’s mine is yours… god, Timmy. Do you know what you’re doing for me is something I can never repay you with?”

  
Even though he’s much taller than him he feels unnerved under his newly matched gaze. Like a raw, exposed bone is out for the picking.

  
Timmy’s gaze is wide, maybe awe or shock. Armie’s not so sure.

  
“Thank you… I- I’m glad you mean that. I’m doing this-“ he waves towards his extended belly, “for the both of us.” He exhales in relief, smiles.

  
He leans down, presses a chaste, heartfelt kiss to the luscious locks curled against his forehead.

  
Gently nudging him aside, Armie nods his head to the hall, “I’m going to make you a glass of OJ, go look around, make yourself comfortable.”

  
Timmy grins, huge and so happily a giggle bubbles up his chest.

  
Armie thinks it's one of the first times he ever heard him sound so happy.

  
“Thank you, Armie… For everything,” Timmy finishes with a blush, touching his tummy subconciously as he turns down the hall.

  
He opens the fridge quickly, the cupboards are still bare. He’d been too busy and mutually lazy to put the little things away. He grabs a dusty glass left out on the counter to wash in the sink.

  
He fills it up with the juice after shaking out the remainder of water sitting in the bottom of the freshly cleaned glass.

  
Timmy appears around the corner, teary eyed and red in the face.

  
“Are you serious?”

  
Armie’s gut drops.

  
“What?”

  
Timothée rushes at him, head smacking like a sound thump into his chest with the exertion of the hug.

  
“You- you- I can’t believe you did that.”

  
A flood of thank you’s are poured out against Armie’s chest.

  
That’s right.

  
The nursery.

 

-

  
Timmy slowly sits down on his lap in the rocking chair, making tiny sips to his OJ as his eyes glow white with his glittering stare.

  
“It’s beautiful… everything. I never knew it meant this much to you,” Timmy tells him, a mixture of love and pain lacing every word.

  
“Of course, Timmy… it’s you.. And _ours_ ,” he promises pointedly, covering about eighty percent of Timmy’s swell with one large hand.

  
“You’ll be such a great mother, you’re already so beautiful and strong. Our son is going to be a firecracker with you as a parent. I’m already tired thinking about it,” Armie chuckles, envisioning a male child rambunctiously running around like a wild turkey.

  
Timmy curls his lip in thought, appearing intrigued with a beam on the rise of his cheeks.

  
“You think it’s going to be a boy?” Timmy wonders, feeling light on his lap as he moves. Armie secures his waist tighter, helping him maneuver his legs into a more comfortable position.

 

“Or girl,” Armie supplies, grinning hard as he teasingly rubs their noses together.

  
“Hopefully if it is she’ll look like you, you’re the prettier of us two,” Armie jokes honestly, loving the way Timmy glows like a proud parent. They are both so utterly in love with their unborn child it hurts.

  
“Shush,” Timmy laughs brightly, body moving like a wave that settles against Armie’s mouth with a hungry kiss that Armie’s overly willing to dive in to.

  
“It’s true,” he asserts, smug and proud as he playfully grabs Timmy’s chin.

  
Their lips meet again in a heated suction of flicking tongues.

  
Timmy sighs against his mouth, pulling back an inch, keeping his eyes tightly shut.

  
He grips Armie’s hand, possessive in his lithe fingers, leading Armie to settle his palm on his bump.

  
“Make love to me?” Timothée whispers, a fire lit in his eyes. A new life burning within him.

 

Like a cold night, a still desert, Armie’s breath gets caught dry in his throat.

  
He grips his chin as he collides their mouths, rubs Timmy’s tummy like a signature, a mark of what’s his.

  
He’ll show him with his body.


	15. Make love

Timmy sighs while pulling on his jacket, tired and worn out from hormone overload. He looks ravished, Armie's too big shirt still on him after two days. There’s a little spaghetti sauce stain on his sweat pants too.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks him.

 

Armie gives him a once over, reading every inch of him. “You should lay down, you look exhausted.”

 

“I’m pregnant not defenseless,” Timothée replies bitterly, rings under his eyes from one to many episodes of his favorite shows.

 

“No, you’re pregnant and defenseless and that’s why you should lay down,” Armie scolds in irritation, full well knowing Timmy’s in a delicate state.

 

“You know what the doctor said,” Armie states, irises flaring with heat, darting every where Timmy moves.

 

“I don’t care, I want coffee,” Timmy sniffles.

 

  
“You’re not supposed to drink coffee. You know that,” he grits his teeth, fighting the urge to block the door.

 

  
“I’ve been sick all month, my belly is huge and my tits are leaking. I deserve some damn coffee,” Timothée agitatedly remarks, running a hand through his knotty hair.

 

  
Timmy goes to the door, there’s a sheen of sweat basking on his collarbones, his wrists, the little shine on his hips that’s peaking out above his sweatpants.

 

  
“Okay,” Armie sighs, grabbing his keys. “There’s no way you’re going alone.”

 

  
“You’re so overly protective,” Timmy fake complains and hides his smile.

 

  
Armie grimaces, knowing its true. He doesn’t enjoy taking away Timmy’s freedom to do as he pleases but it’s not safe. Timothée is vulnerable at this stage. The doctor said he’s still underweight, especially carrying such a rapidly growing child.

 

  
~~

 

“You’re not going to get any more coffees until you pop,” Armie jokes, half serious.

 

  
Timmy smiles happily, sipping at his steaming cup with avid interest. He rubs his tummy and gazes down. A mesmerizing expression overtaking his face.

 

  
“Feel this,” Timmy says excitedly, hastily putting Armie’s free hand on Timmy’s swollen belly. All proof of him having been there. Timmy’s completely his, he now notices. The thought crashing over him as he really takes this in. The flutter of kicking underneath Timothée’s pale skin, the golden smile resting upon Timmy’s face as he watches his belly adoration. Armie’s shirt on him, adorn by his smaller frame. Armie’s one hand guiding the steering wheel and the other grazing his pregnant lovers stomach. An american dream.

 

  
“You are amazing.”

 

  
He’s awed, really.

 

  
Timmy reddens, biting his lip embarrassedly.

 

  
“We both did this,” Timmy argues weakly, shrugging off the compliment.

 

  
Armie shakes his head. “You are growing our child, that’s more than I could of done.”

 

  
~~

 

  
Later that night, Timmy is sweaty, body hot and writhing in the covers.

 

  
“Are you sick?” Armie asks, completely oblivious to pinpointing Timmy’s behavior.

 

  
Timmy whimpers out, “no, it’s you..” He starts touching himself, rubbing his swollen breasts and down to his rosy cock.

 

  
“it’s me?” Armie repeats, thickening in his underwear, he fights the urge to pry open Timmy's legs and eat him out, knowing easily that nights like this Timmy needs more.

 

  
“You are so protective… it’s like you own me..”

 

  
Timmy twists over, getting into a position to be mounted.

 

  
“That’s the thing.. You do.. You own me, I always need you right here,” Timmy mewls desperately, gesturing to his pelvis, the little spot below his belly button.

 

  
Armie’s mouth taste like cotton. His heart pangs in his dick, rising every breath like a drum beat.

 

  
He shoves off his underwear, kneeing open Timmy’s legs in seconds.

 

  
“You’re mine.” He spreads his large palm out, rubbing Timmy’s thigh, ass, hip, heart.

 

He turns Timmy's docile limbs over, gently coaxing him into a less sexual position to appreciate his beauty.

 

  
“And this..” He possessively presses his hand on Timmy’s stomach, “this is the home to my children and my heart.”

 

  
“I love you,” Timmy whines, seeing the way Armie lovingly looks at him, pulling Armie in to kiss him.

 

  
“I love you more,” he says in return, it comes out easily. Timothée’s eyes fluttering shut when he grins.

 

  
Timmy giggles, letting his head fall into Armie’s chest. Right against his heartbeat.

 

  
“You’re my guardian angel.”

 

  
Timmy stills, bones going tight.

 

  
“Don’t say that,” Timmy says, refusing the words and their meaning heatedly.

 

 

“Why?”

 

  
Timmy sniffles, “I’m not.. Anything like that, I was a stripper.”

 

 

Armie feels a nasty curl in his heart to protect. To kiss away and erase all of Timothée’s negative ideas of himself.

 

 

“You worked as a stripper but you aren’t one. Stripping is a job, you are a mother, a lover, my everything. I’d be nothing without you being in my life. God.. Timmy. You really think that I just see you.. That way?”

 

 

“No, but.. I just feel guilty.”

 

 

  
Armie feels his heart pang uneasily watching his hormonal lover grimace lowly at himself.

 

 

“How so?”

 

 

“I don’t want our kid to be made fun of.. Or for him or her to know what I did,” Timmy whimpers, a silent tear tracking down his cheek.

 

 

He cups his face. “Baby, stop. Our child will love and accept their mother. They will respect and support everything that shaped you to be the wonderful person that you are.”

 

 

Timmy’s eyes glow when he looks up at him.

 

 

  
“You make me feel more loved than I ever have felt before.”

 

 

Armie ponders his beauty for a moment, reflecting on his luck.

 

 

“How could I not? You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

 

 

  
Timmy smiles against his throat, sprawling his legs.

 

 

“You were going to fuck me remember?” Timny reminds slyly.

 

 

Armie shushed him, “make love,” he corrects


End file.
